Read Online The Playmakers by Graeme Johnstone - Free Book Online
Authors: Graeme Johnstone
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laughter
and horror when he would suddenly leave the centre of road and rush
at the crowd on the sidelines, holding his muddy palms out as if to
grab them. Children would hide behind their mothers’ skirts - the
mothers themselves retreating in alarm.
But, as Budsby always pointed out, there was
none better at the game than Soho.
The little fellow knew when to pull back, and
leave people merely with a fast-beating heart and an implanted
message that they must view the show and see what the rest of it
was all about.
It was marketing at its cleverest, the
drummer-boy providing the sound, the bouncing dwarf the action, and
the standard-bearer declaring that Mr Budsby’s mummers would
“Astound, Astonish and Amaze With Acts of Unparalleled
Agility.”
Because most of the populace could barely
read, the canvas also carried true-to-life paintings of three of
the premiere acts - the Siamese twins, the strong man and the
fire-eater. This was important, for while Rufus J. Budsby could
smell the money, it required cleverness and persistence to seduce
it out of tight rural purses.
The troupe carried with them no tent, but
rather, performed on a brightly decorated stage cleverly made up on
the flat of one of the wagons. People simply gathered around, and
therefore the mummers could not charge an admission fee, relying,
instead, on money thrown on stage by an appreciative audience. It
was therefore imperative that all acts, whether sent out to shock,
amuse, or amaze, had to perform at their very best. A bad fall by
one of the acrobats, or a poor lift by the strongman, and the day’s
pickings would be lean.
On those nights, Budsby would stare morosely
into his jug of wine and order his right-hand man, Nick Sayers, to
tell the troupe to smarten up, practice their routines, and ensure
that such sloppy performances were eliminated.
He would get the offenders to reprise their
act by the fire until the problem was ironed out.
Then, after a couple of more drinks, a hearty
feed, and a warm-up by the flickering flames, the optimist in
Budsby would re-surface and roar heartily, “Tomorrow, my friends,
those coins will clatter across the stage like the sound of rolling
thunder.” Then he would let out the bassoon laugh and stagger off
to sleep in his wagon, leaving Soho to batten things down.
Shakespeare would return to his cart, too,
and survey the work needing to be done next morning.
While he had had great success with the
softer leathers, using the relatively primitive tools left behind
by Mr Mullins, he struggled initially with the tougher, thicker
leather for the bridles, harnesses and other more utilitarian gear.
The large, unwieldy needles and the sinewy thread regularly ripped
his skin. But sitting in the maintenance van, amid a ramshackle
collection of tools, strips of leather, and jobs in need of repair,
he willed himself to overlook the blood and discomfort to show his
appreciation for his new family.
As they travelled that summer through Dorset
and Somerset, reaching the western seaboard for an extended stay - a long way from Stratford, he reflected -
he stuck at his task, developing thick calluses on his hands as a
protection against further cuts.
By the time Christmas had come, he had
mastered most jobs, not only with leather, but any other repairs to
vehicles and equipment that were needed.
He was therefore ready when presented with a
vital challenge - to fix the rapidly deteriorating leather
strapping for “The Mighty Hercules, The Strongest Man in all of
Merry England.”
Almost eighteen inches wide at its broadest,
the thick embossed belt was wrapped around Hercules’ rock-hard
stomach by Soho prior to each performance, then pulled tight and
locked with two huge brass buckles at the back.
While adding glamor and drama to the act, the
belt had an important duty - providing support for Hercules’ spine
when he bent down and picked up the bar with the huge,
perfectly-round metal spheres on each end.
As the
and horror when he would suddenly leave the centre of road and rush
at the crowd on the sidelines, holding his muddy palms out as if to
grab them. Children would hide behind their mothers’ skirts - the
mothers themselves retreating in alarm.
But, as Budsby always pointed out, there was
none better at the game than Soho.
The little fellow knew when to pull back, and
leave people merely with a fast-beating heart and an implanted
message that they must view the show and see what the rest of it
was all about.
It was marketing at its cleverest, the
drummer-boy providing the sound, the bouncing dwarf the action, and
the standard-bearer declaring that Mr Budsby’s mummers would
“Astound, Astonish and Amaze With Acts of Unparalleled
Agility.”
Because most of the populace could barely
read, the canvas also carried true-to-life paintings of three of
the premiere acts - the Siamese twins, the strong man and the
fire-eater. This was important, for while Rufus J. Budsby could
smell the money, it required cleverness and persistence to seduce
it out of tight rural purses.
The troupe carried with them no tent, but
rather, performed on a brightly decorated stage cleverly made up on
the flat of one of the wagons. People simply gathered around, and
therefore the mummers could not charge an admission fee, relying,
instead, on money thrown on stage by an appreciative audience. It
was therefore imperative that all acts, whether sent out to shock,
amuse, or amaze, had to perform at their very best. A bad fall by
one of the acrobats, or a poor lift by the strongman, and the day’s
pickings would be lean.
On those nights, Budsby would stare morosely
into his jug of wine and order his right-hand man, Nick Sayers, to
tell the troupe to smarten up, practice their routines, and ensure
that such sloppy performances were eliminated.
He would get the offenders to reprise their
act by the fire until the problem was ironed out.
Then, after a couple of more drinks, a hearty
feed, and a warm-up by the flickering flames, the optimist in
Budsby would re-surface and roar heartily, “Tomorrow, my friends,
those coins will clatter across the stage like the sound of rolling
thunder.” Then he would let out the bassoon laugh and stagger off
to sleep in his wagon, leaving Soho to batten things down.
Shakespeare would return to his cart, too,
and survey the work needing to be done next morning.
While he had had great success with the
softer leathers, using the relatively primitive tools left behind
by Mr Mullins, he struggled initially with the tougher, thicker
leather for the bridles, harnesses and other more utilitarian gear.
The large, unwieldy needles and the sinewy thread regularly ripped
his skin. But sitting in the maintenance van, amid a ramshackle
collection of tools, strips of leather, and jobs in need of repair,
he willed himself to overlook the blood and discomfort to show his
appreciation for his new family.
As they travelled that summer through Dorset
and Somerset, reaching the western seaboard for an extended stay - a long way from Stratford, he reflected -
he stuck at his task, developing thick calluses on his hands as a
protection against further cuts.
By the time Christmas had come, he had
mastered most jobs, not only with leather, but any other repairs to
vehicles and equipment that were needed.
He was therefore ready when presented with a
vital challenge - to fix the rapidly deteriorating leather
strapping for “The Mighty Hercules, The Strongest Man in all of
Merry England.”
Almost eighteen inches wide at its broadest,
the thick embossed belt was wrapped around Hercules’ rock-hard
stomach by Soho prior to each performance, then pulled tight and
locked with two huge brass buckles at the back.
While adding glamor and drama to the act, the
belt had an important duty - providing support for Hercules’ spine
when he bent down and picked up the bar with the huge,
perfectly-round metal spheres on each end.
As the
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